


What could he do? (Should have been a rock star)

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [52]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John in Afghanistan, Nightmares, graphic but sort of poetical descriptions of blood death war etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John dreams of Afghanistan sometimes, strange vistas of blood and death and a piercing note that tries to kill him, but then there is music and Sherlock leading him home again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What could he do? (Should have been a rock star)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Kate Bush's Army Dreamers. Seemed appropriate.
> 
> I just watched Atonement. Brilliantly made film full of terrible people and terrible things. The surreal long shot at Dunkirk set off this train off thought. I've tried reading this fic aloud. It's a strange bit of prose, here.

…and it is cold on the mountain, and it is raining ash and blood but the sound in his ears is a whistle, a high C, sliding down the scale and the lines of men in uniform around him, and the Afghani family who came to sell them trinkets of beaten and etched tin and all of them, they all bloom in a flower of red and white, of meat and bone, like a flower, like a flower _oh god_ , and…

…the desert along the frontier with Iran is quiet and dangerous, and there is no river but there is a river and it is made of quicksand, this river, and when men stand in it they fall and are swallowed, and when children stand in it they fall and are swallowed, and when women stand in it they cry, their arms reaching for the birds that sing above them, F sharp and sweet, and the women fall and are swallowed, and when he stands in it, he steps across the shifting grains and the birds sing so free, so free, like the dead now, those people in the quicksand river, and he sees their faces sees their faces sees their faces…

…in the vines and in the leaves of the yew tree, and how is it that this place can be so lovely and so terrifying and there is honeysuckle and there is hawthorn here and he never knew the names of the plants at home (home home home home, where is that again? he can’t remember) but the olive trees don’t usually grow this high up, the fruit like little bullets and they fall off the tree _ping-ping-ping_ in A flat and there is so much blood…

…and oh! the Hindu Kush is beautiful, even with the peaks made of bayonets and gauze and he misses the snow, the snow, white snow white rose red blood red and the thunder the thunder the thunder the thunder the thunder in that low bass note…

….and hush hush hush he cannot hear a thing but the ringing, the piercing bell tone that is burrowing into his shoulder, spraying muscle and sinew in a pretty scarlet arc, that blasted, blasting note, and it’s in D isn’t it? Is it? A bullet in D major aimed at his heart but missing, only just, just just just the ringing in his ears as he drowns as though his chest is a red and white flower and now the bell-bullet in D is singing and Afghanistan is full of the most terrible music and even the screams are in different notes and different tones, a concert of agony and loss and they are like glass, those voices, all those men, those women, those children he can’t save and the ones he doesn’t want to save because they did the cutting, they made everything bleed and that piercing D is a wail and it’s his and it’s…

…and it’s all right, it’s all right, the symphony is bringing it into harmony, and the one calling his name, crying and yelling his name, is sighing it now, not in panic but calm, all calm; the bleeding has stopped and the only red is in the poppies and the flames as the flowers are burning, and a sweet wind carries away ash and smoke and fire and all the red. And all that is left is the white snow and the green of the yew and birds singing in C and A and up and down the scale, soothing and fresh and safe and home and home (and he remembers where that is now, home; it’s is where the heart is, at Baker Street)…

…and John’s eyes open. He feels like he has run from London to Edinburgh, his body is so tired, but his breathing is calm. His heart thumps a steady beat, strong but controlled.

He blinks at Sherlock, sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, violin tucked under his chin, drawing out the last low, sweet note.

John can’t even remember the dream. He never can. But he remembers this. This thing that happens from time to time, when he needs it. Whenever he needs it.

Sherlock. The violin. Singing John home again from the wasteland of nightmares.

John blinks again. He smiles, slow and sleepy and glad.

Sherlock’s faint smile and nod say _you are welcome_. After all, John sang him home too, once.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've attempted an audio recording of this fic. You can download it at Sendspace: [What Could He Do?](http://www.sendspace.com/file/yhcr8v)


End file.
